


De Profundis

by EmilianaDarling



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: (more information available in end notes if necessary), Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Intoxication, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweltering from the heat and vision swimming with ale, Athelstan finds himself the subject of an unwitting interrogation. And even if he can’t understand it yet, everything Ragnar does has a purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Profundis

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This fic is my first foray into Vikings fandom, and I really hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think, and feel free to visit me at emilianadarling.tumblr.com as well if you fancy. :3

Outside might be colder than any summer Athelstan has ever experienced, but inside the confines of Ragnar and Lagertha’s home is sweltering.

The fire crackling in the grate only a few feet away makes the air feel thick and the room feel too small, although Ragnar Lodbrok doesn’t seem to notice. Sweat keeps dripping down the back of his neck, and Athelstan can’t tell if the flushed feeling in his cheeks is from the heat or from too much to drink. The heavy wool cloth of his habit only makes the heat more oppressive, but he doesn’t dare take it off. The rope noose is scratchy around his neck.

The two of them have been talking for a few hours, Lagertha and the children having long since gone to bed, and admittedly his companion – captor, master, _owner_ , his _owner_ – seems to be in a good enough mood. Impish and full of constrained energy, the interest in Ragnar’s bright blue eyes had only increased as they traded basic English phrases back and forth. His grin seems to grow wider and wider every time he refills Athelstan’s cup.

Ragnar is enjoying this; that much is certain. But the world is so indistinct and his mind so muddled that Athelstan can’t quite seem to figure out _why_. 

The flames in the grate are moving too fast for his eyes to track, colours blurring together and lurching in and out of focus, and all Athelstan wants to do is curl up in his cot and close his eyes against it.

 “This language is not so hard, you know, once you put your mind to it,” says Ragnar gleefully in his own tongue, leaning back in his chair and taking a long gulp of ale. It doesn’t seem to be affecting him at all.

“I… yes. I suppose it must be,” says Athelstan slowly, hiccupping softly as he draws his mind back to the conversation at hand. He squeezes his eyes shut against the brightness of the room, desperately wishing for a crust of bread or _anything_ to sop up some of the sourness in his belly. “You’re… very good at this,” he admits, the words stilted to his own ears, and the praise makes Ragnar grin with self-assured pride.

Although he would never say it out loud, Athelstan had been privately shocked at how quickly Ragnar had been able to master the English words and phrases. He had never seen someone grapple with a new language so quickly and effectively, as though syntax and vocabulary were enemies to be fought and conquered on the battle field. Even with Athelstan’s admittedly mediocre lessons, Ragnar had listened with rapt attention and bright-eyed interest; his mind had assimilated new ideas and concepts with hardly any difficulty at all.

It’s a brutal reminder that Ragnar is more than muscle and brute force: he’s clever, dangerously so. Athelstan feels his ideas about the people of this land adjusting and reshaping to accommodate this new information accordingly, and once again the prospect of escape seems to drift further and further away.

“Drink,” comes voice from very close by, and when Athelstan blinks he is startled to realize that Ragnar is leaning forward and crowding right into his space.

Ragnar’s gaze is steady and intent, and after a moment he reaches a hand out to touch the bottom of Athelstan’s cup. He tips it up with a small teasing smile, effectively forcing Athelstan to swallow more ale or else slop it down his front. He gulps it down somewhat clumsily, the liquid thick and bitter and dull on his tongue.

Across the room, Lagertha makes a small noise in her sleep – but the only thing Athelstan can think about is how little Ragnar would have to move in order touch him. They’re close enough that the smell of _Ragnar_ is all around him, sweat and musk and _man_ , and Athelstan can’t help his mind from wandering. It skitters over illicit ideas and remembered dreams, the question of _what would it feel like_ once again rising without being bidden.

For a split second, the taste of ale in his mouth and Ragnar’s gaze on him like a physical presence, a half-formed idea catches at his mind: what it would feel like to lie between them. Nothing else, nothing truly sinful; just the solidity of Ragnar’s chest against his back, his arms wrapped around the softness of Lagertha’s breasts.

After only the briefest of moments Athelstan wrenches himself out of the fantasy, a sinking feeling of shame and self-disgust churning violently in his stomach. Only a few days out of God’s house and already temptation and corruption cloy at him from every turn, he chastises himself, turning away when Ragnar looks at him curiously.

And yet…

These people _own_ him. There is nothing and no one to protect him here, and Athelstan knows well enough that they could have done anything to him. He had been waiting it with the certainty of a condemned man: for the harsh beatings, the public humiliation. For the things that always happen to women when towns are raided and prisoners taken.

But when Ragnar and Lagertha finally approached him it had been to ask, not to take. It makes something dark and conflicted blossom in his soul, a seed of conflicted doubt taking root deep inside.

 _God forgive me,_ he begs desperately, and he has to bite down hard on his lip to stop himself from letting out a noise of distress at how very far he’s fallen. _God, please forgive me._

“Enough lessons for the night,” says Ragnar coolly after a moment, leaning back in his chair and giving Athelstan a look. It’s long, and knowing, and Athelstan can’t suppress the reflexive shame at the intensity of his stare. “I want to know about _you_.”

There is a pause as the words sink in. A small noise of confusion escapes from Athelstan’s throat. “Me?” he asks slowly, blinking. “I don’t… there isn’t anything. Nothing important.”

“Humour me,” says Ragnar dryly, and Athelstan has no choice but to obey.

“I was placed in a monastery when I was just a child,” says Athelstan slowly, feeling uncertain. “Before that, I lived in a small village along the coast.”

“Why did they send you there?” asks Ragnar, looking genuinely interested. He leans forward and fills Athelstan’s cup to the brim.

Athelstan shrugs, the movement making the room swim. “I had four brothers and a sister – too many mouths to feed,” he explains, and Ragnar nods knowingly. “But being sent away was the only thing that spared my life, in the end. All of them died from a fever.”

The look that Ragnar gives him is understanding, not pitying. Such a story is common enough in Northumbria, and Athelstan can only assume the same is true here. Talking about his family isn’t particularly difficult for him: they had cared for him, certainly, but he had never known any real love before being taken into God’s embrace.

“It happened after they moved into a larger town near Lindisfarne,” Athelstan continues, taking another drink. _That_ makes Ragnar’s eyes light up, his back straightening ever-so-slightly, but Athelstan is far too caught up in the story to take any real notice. He hiccups softly. “As soon as I was old enough I became a postulate at the monastery, then a novice. I took my vows as soon as I could.”

“And these _monasteries_ ,” interjects Ragnar eagerly, leaning forward in his seat. “They have them in every town?”

“A monastery?” Athelstan echoes, caught off guard by his eagerness. “Oh, no. Churches, though – yes, of course, churches. At least one in every town so the people can… can be with God.”

Across from him, Ragnar’s eyebrows raise quizzically. “They go into these churches every day?”

“Some people, but not all. Sundays, of course, Sundays are special.” Excitement bubbles in his chest as he remembers, leaning forward eagerly as he speaks. “When I was a very young child, it was the most… _mystical_ thing I ever knew. The great bells ring in the morning and everyone enters the church, and you can _feel_ God watching you, you really can. The priest would speak the sermon in Latin, but of course almost no one understood him. When I was a boy I _swore_ that I would grow up and learn it.” A smile tugged at his lips at the memory – but he stumbles over his words when he looks up and catches the way that Ragnar is _staring_ at him.

His stare is fixed and even, and there is no hint of the mischievousness he plays up with his family and no sign of the ruthless battle-born power that Athelstan had seen him channel at Lindisfarne. It’s a measuring look, as though Ragnar can somehow see past his skin and understand him in a way that no one but God has ever been able to before.

Not for the first time, Athelstan wonders why he’s here. Why he has been allowed to live; why Ragnar and Lagertha are treating him as something between a servant and a friend when they don’t have to, they’ve never had to.

“Go on,” says Ragnar, breaking the moment by smiling broadly and cocking his head to one side.

“There’s not much else to tell,” Athelstan murmurs, trying to conceal the way his words are catching and slurring by lowering his voice. He shrugs. “You share in the Eucharist – bread and wine that becomes the body and blood of Christ – and sing, and listen, and exist together with God. Eventually people leave and go about their day of rest.”

“It _becomes_ the body and blood of –?” asks Ragnar in horror, disgust clutching at his face, before shaking his head. “You Christians. Why not simply gather a sacrifice for your god? Odin always enjoys a good sacrifice.”

Not feeling as though Ragnar would appreciate the subtleties and nuances of the story of Jesus Christ’s sacrifice for mankind – and not particularly feeling able to communicate it clearly anyways – Athelstan averts his eyes and takes another drink rather than respond. Across from him, Ragnar is nodding thoughtfully.

“So it happens on Sundays, when the bell tolls. Good.”

Something twinges at the corners of Athelstan’s mind; a discomfort that he can’t quite identify. He licks his lips. “Why do you --?”

“So how do you know our language?” asks Ragnar abruptly, and Athelstan blinks at the sudden change of topic. He opens his mouth to repeat the words he had spoken in Lindisfarne before Ragnar silences him with a wry look and a sweep of his hand. “You have travelled, I know this. But tell me. I want to know more.”

The metal cup feels heavy and his fingers loose and clumsy, but when he tightens his grip some of the ale sloshes over his hand. He blinks at the cup, hand wet and sticky, but Ragnar only smiles and fills the cup right back up to the brim. Feeling obliged, Athelstan raises it to his lips and takes another drink. He swallows it down heavily, then pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts.

“There was a call to spread the word of God, and I was chosen to accompany the mission. We…” He scrunches up his brow as he remembers, the room growing less distinct as he did so. “We travelled by boat and settled in the Rhineland, along the great river. Many in small towns had not heard the word of the Lord.”

“That is a long way away from here,” Ragnar comments, but not in a way that makes Athelstan feel corrected or rushed. It is merely an observation, and when Athelstan glances up to meet his gaze he finds Ragnar’s eyes as vivid and curious as they ever were. Athelstan nods.

“It is. My brothers and I stayed there for half a year or so, and some traders from Ribe – you know Ribe?” At Ragnar’s amused nod, he continues. “The traders came and stayed nearby, and I asked them to teach me some of their language. That language was… it is not quite the same as yours. Some words are different. But it’s similar enough.”

“And were there any women in this ‘mission’?” asks Ragnar, his voice measured and neutral. Athelstan shakes his head, taking another drink of ale.

 “Just like your temple, then!” Ragnar groans, throwing up a hand in the air in obvious bewilderment. “I do not understand. What do you do when the need overwhelms you? Suck one another’s cocks instead?”

The second to last is a word he doesn’t know, but the context makes it perfectly clear what Ragnar is talking about. Athelstan splutters violently on his ale, some of it slopping unceremoniously down his chest, so completely scandalized he can barely _breathe_ let alone defend himself.

“ _Of course not_ ,” he hisses when he has his breath back, heat rushing into his face. The implication is so awful – so _unspeakable_ \-- that humiliation throbs at his gut at the very suggestion. “We would never – _I_ would never –”

An open, boisterous laugh wrenches him out of his indignation. Ragnar’s head is thrown back in merriment, the long plait of his hair swinging animatedly behind him. He shows no signs of cruelty or mocking. To Athelstan’s absolute horror, it occurs to him that the question hadn’t been intended as an insult to him or his brothers – but as an _honest question_.

Eyes twinkling deviously, Ragnar shakes his head in amusement. “It is unwise to say ‘never’, priest,” he murmurs, something dark and inviting shining in his eyes. He raises his eyebrows suggestively, a small smile tugging at his lips. His eyes trail over Athelstan’s face, lingering over his mouth. “No one knows the future but the gods.”

It’s openly seductive in a way that neither Ragnar nor Lagertha had been since the night of the first invitation, and it makes Athelstan feel as though his stomach has turned to lead. He squirms under Ragnar’s gaze, the memory of the last few nights spent only a few feet away from Ragnar and Lagertha’s marriage bed making it completely impossible for him to look Ragnar in the eye.

Every night since they had invited him to their bed, Athelstan had been forced to endure the _sounds_. Murmured words and giggles and the smack of flesh on flesh, Lagertha’s heavy breathing and Ragnar’s deep groans always piercing him right to the core no matter how loud he prays.

His stomach churns with sickly guilt at how his body had reacted to the sights and sounds of their lovemaking; how, after the first time it happened, he had taken himself in hand after the two of them had finally drifted off to sleep. Buried beneath the heavy furs and biting the flesh of his hand so hard it bled, tears of humiliation streaking his face by the time he finished.

And the thing he is most ashamed of – the thing he can barely admit to himself, even with the world soaked in ale and sweltering in heat – is how he almost wishes they _had_ forced him. That they had taken the choice away from him instead of accepting his refusal, _making_ the pleasure come and leaving him blameless and powerless against it.

It would be better than this; than the bone-deep uncertainty and the crippling shame. Better than the ever-present whispers in his mind, voices demanding to know how wrong it could be to betray God when God has already betrayed him so completely.  

Ragnar is still looking at him, waiting, but Athelstan doesn’t know what to say. He finishes his drink instead, hand shaking as he places the empty cup down on his cot. Numbness is wrenching at his insides, making him wish desperately that he had someone to confess to.

“… I know it happens,” says Athelstan slowly, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “Men who lie with men.” This conversation is dangerous, he thinks, but his hands are clumsy and his mind is swimming. His mind briefly skitters over the butcher in his village who had been stabbed to death for his transgressions; the visiting Prior from a monastery in York who everyone knew about but nobody ever _talked_ about. He looks up, licking his lips. “But… it is a sin. It is a _great_ sin, you can’t… you don’t understand.”

He blinks, and all at once Ragnar seems to be much closer. Leaning forward, pushing into Athelstan’s space and crowding him against the back wall. The cup clangs and rattles as it rolls off the bed and strikes the floor, but none of the family wakes up at the sound. Ragnar doesn’t even flinch.

Athelstan’s breathing is hard and loud in his own ears, and after a moment Ragnar leans in, eyes bright and blue and steady, and reaches up to toy with a strand of Athelstan’s hair.

“There is no shame in pleasure,” says Ragnar after a moment, voice low and ever-so-patient, and Athelstan shivers in anticipation and fear. The hand feels good, and even though Athelstan knows he should pull away he can’t seem to make himself do it. The whole room, everything but the two of them, seems blurry and unimportant compared to this. Warm breath tickles against Athelstan’s face as Ragnar lets out a small laugh. “I don’t understand you English. Forbidding people from something so natural… it seems barbaric.”

The sound of that word on Ragnar’s lips would be enough to make him laugh – if it weren’t for the way that Ragnar moves, hand sliding down to hold Athelstan’s chin and tilt it gently to one side. The motion exposes the length of his throat, and Athelstan sucks in an involuntary breath when Ragnar leans and grazes his lips over Athelstan’s neck. He gasps hard, his skin hot and sensitive wherever Ragnar’s lips touch. He reaches up and grips at the light wool shirt on Ragnar’s shoulders, head spinning.

“Please,” he whispers, a pathetic little whining noise escaping his throat when Ragnar presses a kiss against his throat. “Please, you’re… you’re married.”

It’s a weak excuse, and for the life of him Athelstan doesn’t know why he speaks it. It makes Ragnar laugh and pull back, eyes glinting with amusement. Something inside him feels quietly devastated at the loss of Ragnar’s lips against his throat, and he can’t tell if that realization or the drink is what’s making his stomach churn. Ragnar reaches up, a hand cupping Athelstan’s cheek.

“The only reason my love would be upset would be if we didn’t include her next time,” Ragnar confides, voice low and playful. “I am not the only one who looks at you, _Athelstan.”_ His voice plays over the syllables of his name as though it’s something exotic; as though it’s a treat to savour. Ragnar grows more serious after a moment, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. “She wants that mouth of yours between her legs,” he states, matter of fact, and Athelstan can’t help but let out a long, breathy groan _._ “Did you know that?”

Athelstan wants to hide; wants to pull away and run out the door, wants to be back with his brothers where the choices were never so hard and temptation never looked like _this._ The rope chafes around his neck, but Ragnar’s calloused thumb is gentle as it strokes his cheek. He shakes his head.

“Do you not think me pleasant to look on?” asks Ragnar calmly, as though it’s that _simple_. At his lack of a response, Ragnar continues. “Or my wife; is she not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?”

“Oh, God,” Athelstan hears himself choking out, his whole body clenching and tensing as he draws himself inward. Staring down at his lap, practically rocking in place, everything indistinct and too much and not _enough._ “God, _please_ ,” he whispers, tears stinging at his eyes, and in that moment he honestly doesn’t know whether he’s begging for rescue or release.

All at once, however, Ragnar’s cool hand is gone from his cheek. Athelstan tenses even further, jerking away and looking up at him with wide eyes, half expecting a strike.

Instead, however, Ragnar is moving away. He stands, staring at Athelstan in a way that is utterly unreadable.

“I will not force you into our bed, priest,” says Ragnar lightly, something like pity in his eyes. It should feel like a victory, Athelstan thinks. Instead, all he can feel is disgust. He winces hard, and for a horrible moment Athelstan doesn’t know whether he should feel more ashamed for disappointing Ragnar or disappointing God. “I could not: Lagertha would never stand for it, and I have no desire to bed the unwilling.”

Ragnar moves to turn, but lingers before crossing the room to join his wife. His hair shines golden brown in the firelight, his whole body still full of contained energy even in relaxation. For a moment, Athelstan wonders if anything could ever appear truly _alive_ next to a man like him.

“If you decide this is something that you want,” says Ragnar slowly, making sure he speaks each word clearly and calmly, “then you will have to make that choice on your own.” He smiles one last time, the grin on his face incongruous with the horrible, sinking shame in Athelstan’s own heart. “Good night, priest.”

“... good night,” Athelstan murmurs back after a long moment, bowing his head and blinking away the stinging in his eyes. He draws himself up fully onto his cot, resolutely facing the wall and refusing to glance over at the sound of Ragnar joining his wife in bed.

It’s too hot to cover himself in the furs unless he takes off his habit, but the raw humiliation of their conversation is too fresh for him to remove any part of his clothes. Instead Athelstan lies on the bed, squeezing his eyes tight shut and muttering choked-back prayers; as though the words can clear the darkness inside his own heart.

He can’t tell if the disappointed gaze he feels dragging over his skin is from Ragnar or from God.  

Empty and stricken and not at all drunk anymore, it takes a long time for Athelstan to fall into an uneasy sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The title translates roughly to 'from the depths'. It is taken from the traditional Latin translation of the first line of Psalm 130:
> 
> _De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine | From the depths, I have cried out to you, O Lord_
> 
> Trigger Information: The mildly dubious consent mentioned in the tags refers to a brief instance of Ragnar pushing into Athelstan's personal space while Athelstan intoxicated and confused, with Ragnar brushing his lips over Athelstan's neck before quickly pulling back again.


End file.
